They arrived within a day.
From the skies above Droscalin, the last beacon of northern defiance, the Solas fleet loomed ,cold, metallic vultures against the grey clouds.
But Master Arkan had already gone ahead.
While the soldiers prepared, he soared across the entire country, dragon form casting a shadow over every city, every village.
He held aloft his ghastly banner—millions of heads, torsos, and limbs of the slain from Kareth-Thorne, suspended in the air like grotesque constellations.
Then, as his glowing silver eyes swept across the land, his voice ,amplified by soul force ,boomed across every inch of the kingdom:
> "You have half a day.
Bend the knee, or every last one of you dies screaming."
It wasn't just loud,it was overwhelming.
His words shook the ground. Shattered windows. Burst eardrums.
Thousands died instantly.
Some collapsed, clutching their chests as their hearts gave out. Others screamed in madness. A few soiled themselves in raw terror.
And then,he released the bodies.
The sky rained flesh and death.
Skulls cracked on stone courtyards. Torsos smashed through roofs. Legs fell like clubs upon the terrified crowds.
Screams erupted from every city.
Some died instantly from the impact. Others stared up at the raining corpses in blank horror.
It was no longer just war.
It was an annihilation.
---
Back aboard the ship, soldiers stood in silence.
Arkan returned in humanoid form, his white robes unstained, his long horns glowing faintly, his silver eyes unreadable.
No one dared speak.
No one even breathed too loudly.
He walked past rows of kneeling men, his presence alone forcing them into submission.
Without even turning his head, he said, "If they resist ,drop another 200 bombs."
And then he disappeared into the shadows of the command ship.
---
Meanwhile, in Droscalin's central palace, chaos reigned.
People protested in the streets, their voices rising in confusion and desperation.
> "We must fight! Die with honor!"
"We cannot win, look what they did to Kareth-Thorne!"
"Think of the children! Think of what they'll do to us!"
Panic spread like wildfire.
Inside the last surviving noble estate, Lord Aelric Varane, the most senior noble left after Valen Solas massacred the royal bloodline, paced the chamber.
His face was pale. Hands trembling.
He stared through the window at the clouds still thick with soul smoke and the faint echoes of Arkan's voice.
Behind him stood two children—a girl and a boy, no older than ten, dressed in worn ceremonial robes, their faces blank from terror.
The girl clutched her brother's hand tightly. They were the hidden legacy of the fallen monarchy.
The last twins of House Serakar.
Aelric wiped his forehead, sweat pouring.
"They'll kill us all…" he whispered.
An advisor beside him spoke. "My lord, if we fight—"
"No!" Aelric barked, then stumbled back into his chair. "No… We've already lost. The Solas are monsters. That creature in the sky,he's not a man. He's death."
He looked at the twins.
> "As long as one royal blood lives… we can rise again someday. But not if we die here."
He turned to his scribe.
"Send word. We surrender."
---
The message reached the Solas fleet before dusk.
A simple transmission, one sentence:
> "Droscalin yields. We surrender unconditionally."
Cheers erupted across the ships.
Another kingdom fallen.
Another victory.
All in less than a week.
Rin stood quietly as the announcement echoed through the warship. He watched the men celebrate, clapping, laughing, hugging.
But in his heart, all he felt was ice.
They weren't soldiers. They weren't saviors.
They were monsters. Just like Arkan.
Just like Kaelion.
> "They smile and cheer like heroes," he thought.
"But behind the masks… all I see are wolves with blood on their teeth."